James was trapped with the Millers, watching Master Walter and Rob as they joined in the circle. The dancers laughed and twisted and turned as the fiddle ripped out an irresistible tune. Alinor knew that it was impossible for James to break free from his hosts and dance like his pupils. All the godly men and their wives had gone home as soon as dinner was over—a minister of the reformed Church should do nothing more than watch the first dance and then leave—but she could not stop herself thinking that perhaps he would come to her. For a moment, she fell into a dizzy imagining of him taking her hand and leading her into the circle. She thought of the swell of envy that would follow them, of the familiar flush of jealous rage on Mrs. Miller’s cheek, of how the young women of the parish would whisper behind their hands that of all the girls he could have chosen, of all the young wives he could have honored, of all the plump matrons who would have swooned as they took his hand for a country dance—of everyone—he led out Alinor Reekie, the tall, willowy, excessively beautiful Alinor Reekie, who cast down her eyes like a modest woman and then looked up and smiled at him like a woman in love.

Alinor was so absorbed by this reverie of social triumph that she had a little jolt of surprise when she saw James standing before her. The coincidence of daydream and reality overwhelmed her. She was certain that he had come to ask her to dance, that despite everything he would take her hands and, deaf to her whispered refusal, his hand would come around her waist and their steps would match. She gave a little gasp of delight and stepped towards him, her hand out, her eyes bright, her lips smiling a welcome.

But he was cold. “I will take Master Walter and Robert home now,” was all he said.

“You . . . don’t dance?” she stammered.

“Of course not.” He sounded stern. “And neither may you.”

“But I never do!” she protested. “I was never going to! I just thought . . .” She stepped a little closer. “You won’t stay?” she whispered. “Stay a little longer?”

He frowned at her and stepped back. “No. I certainly won’t.”

She was astounded. “What have you been hearing?” she demanded. “I know you were talking about me with Mrs. Miller. What has she been saying to you?”

He was wrong-footed, caught gossiping like one of the spiteful neighbors. “Nothing! She said nothing but what I knew already: that your husband has left you, that you find it hard to manage.”

“If she told you that I am unchaste it is a lie!” she said fiercely. “If she told you that her husband, Mr. Miller, favors me, then it is another. I never speak to him but in the yard before everyone! He never says a word but what everyone could hear. Is that what she said that makes you so . . . so . . .”